A Fleeting Mention of Tristram Shandy
by Madame Seabush
Summary: Mycroft can't hold his liquor. Tipsiness ensues. Oneshot. Fluff.


Both Holmes had a low tolerance to alcohol. It was something John had noticed in Sherlock, and it was certainly something he was noticing in Mycroft.

Mycroft found himself lulled by a safe and happy atmosphere and had finished his wine in amidst dinner conversation. Usually, though it would seem that Mycroft possessed the same manner of oral fixation as his younger brother. And without the umbrella to occupy his hands, he found salvation in a wine glass.

The weight of his umbrella served to anchor his thoughts, as one would center themselves with meditation. Such fixation could often be a downfall, however this was blissfully taken care of with the same ease which came in lifting the glass back and tipping the crimson liquid back.

At first, the Pinot Noir served as a point of conversation (Lestrade had a penchant with the wines list) and soon served as an unhealthy way in which to help swallow ones opinion. Mycroft was, unfortunately, all opinion. Unlike his brother, however, he was often reserved and preferred to speak in turn. An art that Sherlock had yet to perfect.

Mycroft Holmes was tipsy. His eyes crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile spread across his typically cruel mouth. A thick comma of hair obscured his vision though he hadn't the mind to sweep it back. It was unruly and proved too much of a fuss.

Sherlock had made an effort to retain some practiced austere (biting his bottom lip), but it became apparent that Mycroft knew his little brother's idiosyncrasies with admirable accuracy and his methods were effortless. Every so often there would be a hum of suppressed laughter that John would follow to the consulting detective. Sherlock had not touched his wine and yet there was an undeniable flush to pale skin, the same ease and fluidity of his movement that matched his brothers.

It wasn't until a particular case was mentioned that Mycroft succeeded in truly unraveling the Consulting Detective. A dark, husky chuckle escaped his chest and John could see the mirth in his eyes. Genuine amusement that was so difficult to elicit from the brilliant man – and Sherlock displayed such hostility for Mycroft, it seemed the most unlikely person.

John feared he should have known better.

One might have expected the eldest to possess the same alluring baritone as his young brother, but his laughter was tenor. Their energy crackled in the soft atmosphere of the restaurant like a live wire. John supposed this was the danger that accompanied the union of two great minds.

The Holmes brothers shared a peculiar sense of humour, John noticed, dark and perverse, marked by considerable intelligence and wit. John also found that most of their references were lost on him, save for a fleeting mention of Tristram Shandy.

Neither man had let on to have much of a sense of humour, though the fact it was decidedly dark didn't shock him, nor did his ignorance of the subject matter, the tightly weaved inside jokes and mentions of childhood.

After chuckling like ill behaved school boys at an anecdote of considerable amusement, Mycroft settled, malleable grey sparkled in the dim yet warm light of the restaurant. His voice a mite softer, pacified by what John surmised was.

Mycroft allowed his weight to shift against Sherlock, catching the man by surprise. The night was still young however it would seem that Mycroft was not. "Mycroft, I do believe your age is showing." Sherlock smirked over at his older brother, who blinked languidly over at him.

"Nonsense." A slight drawl was only indicative of his fatigue, "Might I remind you I am only seven years your senior?" He chuckled in good humour, of course. He was only seven years Sherlock's senior but he could confess a considerable difference in endurance. It was here he considered that being a man of great power became his weakness.

Sherlock must have seen something in those eyes then, because after a drawn silence, he figured it best to bring a close to the night.

"John?" Sherlock glanced over at his friend expectantly, and John raised his brow in surprise before realising. It was his less-than-subtle manner of telling him to end the night politely, for it seemed Sherlock was unable to feign such simplicities.

Right.

"I suppose we should…" he began, though when he looked over at Lestrade, he was met by a knowing smile.

"I'll help you get a cab." The Detective Inspector stood as they did.


End file.
